


speak daggers but use none

by gracequills



Series: words, words, words [3]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - High School, Brothers, Family Dynamics, Foster Care, Found Family, Gen, Grocery Store, High School, Light Angst, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sleepyboisinc - Freeform, Twins, Twins Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, light description of blood, no beta we die like friend, philza minecraft's shit parenting, sbi, why isn't that a tag already
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-02
Updated: 2021-02-02
Packaged: 2021-03-16 09:07:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28704156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracequills/pseuds/gracequills
Summary: Even though the three Watson boys are finally living together underneath one roof, Tommy and Wilbur have their own issues to solve. Maybe they'd get along if Wilbur wasn't such a massive prick all the time.
Relationships: Technoblade & TommyInnit (Video Blogging RPF), Wilbur Soot & Technoblade, Wilbur Soot & Technoblade & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit
Series: words, words, words [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2041182
Comments: 24
Kudos: 306





	speak daggers but use none

**Author's Note:**

> a shorter fic for you all tonight!! and thus the camera pans to tommy. please enjoy <33 [guys i actually managed to write less than 10k for a oneshot guys are you proud of me guys-] and unbeta'd so all mistakes are mind.
> 
> content warning for a light description of blood (glass-related injury) and if that bothers you!! stay safe folks <3 title is from hamlet.

If Tommy had to describe Wilbur in three words, he thinks it’d be easy:  _ massive fucking prick. _

It’s a bit mean, maybe, but it’s not  _ Tommy’s _ fault that Will refuses to interact with him like a normal human being. Wilbur takes it upon himself to make Tommy’s life just that little bit more difficult, and it’s incredibly annoying.

Sure, Tommy is only a freshman, while Wilbur’s in his senior year of high school. Sure, Tommy purposefully acts out in order to annoy him. Sure, Tommy feels like an intruder when it comes to his twin brothers, and has since his first night underneath Phil’s roof. 

But after a miserable existence jumping from foster home to foster home for the first thirteen years of his life, Phil, who had eventually adopted him alongside Techno and Wilbur, is the best of a bad bunch. Tommy can deal with a few bratty seniors if it means he gets to sleep in his own bed at night. (And if he calls them  _ brother, brother, brother  _ in his mind as he stares up at the ceiling, desperately wishing for it to be true… then that’s nobody’s business. He likes the way it sounds on his tongue).

But Wilbur doesn’t have to be quite so fucking  _ mean  _ all the time.

Technoblade is a little harder to read, but Tommy thinks he could describe his older brother in two:  _ Questionable nerd.  _ Emphasis on the  _ nerd,  _ because really, who spends hours writing an essay when you can just up and bullshit it in thirty minutes?

As for Phil… Tommy gets stuck, there, because Philza is everything and nothing to him, all at once. There are no words for what they are. Besides, Tommy’s no good with words, even if he uses them to bluster his way through his daily life.

Their little family, all four of them, is a bundle of misfits and metaphors, like a quilt sewn up wrong. Their edges don’t quite fit, and when the friction between them ignites into something real, all that tension goes up in flame like gasoline. Tommy can smell it in the air— _ danger,  _ heady and stifling like smoke. 

Flames lick at their feet now, on a Friday afternoon, as Phil makes dinner. It’s a rare occasion—Phil is commonly kept late at work on Fridays, and the three boys are usually left to fend for themselves. It has them all on edge, so Tommy dances around the kitchen, grinning as Wilbur tries to swipe at him and misses. He holds his prize close to his chestーWilbur's stolen guitar capoーand crows, "Phil, Wilbur's being toxic again!"

True to form, Will splutters as he makes another desperate grab for his younger brother. Tommy just sticks out his tongue at Wilbur, rather childishly, and darts back. "How the hell am I the toxic one?! Phil, Tommy's being a brat!"

"Wilbur, Tommy, please," Phil says, rather absentmindedly, as he sets up the rice cooker on the counter. He putters around methodically, measuring out the rice and filling the cooker up with water. "Try not to antagonize each other."

Tommy darts back around the kitchen in a flurry of limbs. He finally settles himself, grinning, behind Techno. His older brother sighs and crosses his arms over his chest, resigning himself to being Tommy's human shield.

Wilbur is absolutely furious now. He stalks towards his brothers, shoulders set in a hard line, and Tommy thinks, _ oh shit.  _ "What the fuck, Phil?!"

"You really shouldn't talk to Phil like that," Tommy points out with a shit-eating grin.

"Give it back!" Wilbur shouts, properly incensed.

"Alright, I'm out," Techno says, and he steps quickly to the side, leaving Tommy wide open. Tommy scrambles back as Wilbur makes a beeline straight for him. "You're on your own, Tommy."

"Techno!" Tommy wails as Wilbur rugby-tackles him and wrestles him to the ground. He keeps the capo close to his chest, squirming as Wilbur uses his unfair height advantage to poke Tommy in the side. Techno watches with a grin, safe on the sidelines. "Phil, help!"

"Just give him back the capo, Tommy," Phil says with a sigh from across the kitchen.

"Nuh-uh, this is mine!"

Still wrestling on the floor, Wilbur growls, “You little shit,” and promptly snatches the capo from Tommy, before standing up and brushing himself off.

Phil sighs from across the kitchen. “Will,  _ enough _ .”

“What?!” Will throws up his hands, scowling. “It's not my fault he's a fucking gremlin-childー"

Tommy bristles, cutting over the top of his brother. "Call me a child one more time and I'm gonna start stabbin' shitー"

“Phil, make them stop!” Techno calls as he cuts off his brothers, sounding amused despite himself.

Phil sighs, sets the sack of rice down on the counter with a firm hand—just loud enough to freeze his sons in their tracks. “Cut it out, all three of you,” he says firmly, his steady tone leaving no room for argument. “Tommy, I want you to set the table. Will, can you put the rice back downstairs?”

“The rice doesn’t go downstairs,” Tommy mutters under his breath, just to be a prick about it.

“Yes, it does,” Wilbur bites out.

“It goes in the cupboard!”

“The cupboard  _ downstairs _ , you little freak—”

“Wilbur!” Phil’s voice, though steady, holds an angry fire that burns Tommy to the touch. “And Tommy, you too. That’s enough.” 

“Sorry,” Wilbur says, sounding nothing of the sort, before he grabs the rice and disappears down the basement stairs. Tommy clenches his hands into fists as the dinner preparations continue—he sets the table and Techno unloads the dishwasher., under Philza’s direction, as the tension starts to heighten.

Nothing changes once they’re all settled around the table, plates loaded with curry and rice. Nose filled with the spices of tikka masala, Tommy stabs at the food on his plate with a little more force than necessary, nearly spraying rice everywhere as the silence stretches out.

"So how was school today?" Phil asks finally, looking around at all three of them, and Tommy wants to cringe. It’s the insensitivity of the question that frustrates him. He has no idea how Phil can so completely  _ ignore _ the clear family dynamics going on here.

Even after Techno stood up for Tommy during the whole Dream-George-Snapchat fiasco, a strange sort of tension still remains between the three boys. Tommy’s not sure if Wilbur knows the full story behind Tommy quitting tutoring—he almost flushes at the pure embarrassment of the thought. Dream’s words had ripped through Tommy, cut straight to the bone, if only because they were true.

Phil clears his throat a little like he’s expecting an answer. Techno and Wilbur, to no surprise, remain silent, so Tommy takes it upon himself to answer. 

“Good,” he says with his mouth full. Wilbur glares at him, so he swallows and says again, “ _ Good _ . I had a test in English today, which I  _ think _ I passed—I mean, obviously, I  _ am  _ the biggest man here, so it’s no surprise—and Tubbo shared his crisps with me at lunch, ‘cos they were the nice salt-n-vinegar kind. Not that you don’t buy nice crisps, Phil,” he assures the man hurriedly, “but you know the ones I mean? The really salty ones—super vinegar-y, the ones that burn your tongue clean off?”

Phil blinks, taken aback by the spew of words. It’s not Tommy’s fault that the atmosphere at the table is stifling, uncomfortable enough that it prompts him to overshare. “I—yes.”

“Tommy and Tubbo snuck off-campus for lunch,” Wilbur says promptly into his curry.

Tommy scowls, grasping his fork tightly.  _ Snitch.  _ “So did you, asshole,” he points out.

“He’s a senior,” Techno supplies, clearly establishing his side early on in  _ this  _ particular argument. Tommy glares at him. “He used privileges.”

“What privileges?” Tommy counters. “Getting high in the props closet doesn’t count as a senior privilege.”

Wilbur hisses, “Fuck you, I don’t—” at the exact same time that Techno drawls, "Do you value your kneecaps, Tommy?"

Phil sighs, long-suffering. His eyes flick between the three boys, clearly trying to parse the strange argument. "Techno, no threats at the dinner table."

"It wasn't a threat, Phil, it was a genuine question," Techno drawls, looking pleased with himself like the complete wanker he is, and Phil sighs like he wants to reprimand him but can’t.

It hasn’t always been like this. 

Not from the start. Tommy doesn’t think so, at least, because there had been a moment—the day that Phil brought Tommy home, the day he’d met Wilbur for the first time—where Tommy had allowed himself, perhaps foolishly, to hope. He’d accosted Wilbur with his childlike admiration, fully embracing his new start.

But Tommy also remembers how, on that first day, Wilbur had taken one look at him and turned up his nose. How he'd complained bitterly to Techno behind closed doors about the scrawny boy Phil had decided to bring home. “ _ Three's company, but four's far too many, _ ” Wilbur had said, tone unreadable.

Tommy’s heart gives a squeeze at the memory. At least he has Techno, he thinks humorlessly; some of the time, if not all of it. He values their relationship more than he could ever put into words.

If only Techno felt the same way.

* * *

Tutoring that Tuesday goes  _ horribly _ . 

Tommy is distracted, antsy, moving his leg up and down at the speed of light. His thoughts are wild—he’s still thinking about Wilbur and Techno and all the shit going down at home, so when Dream says something that sounds pretentious as fuck, he snaps. 

“I don’t understand,” Tommy says. He knows his voice is whiny, knows he sounds so fucking petulant that it’s probably vomit-inducing, but he can’t bring himself to care.

Dream grits his teeth. Clearly, his nerves are fraying. “I’m not supposed to write your goddamn essay for you,” he manages. Tommy resists the urge to flinch—his mind knows that this is nothing like the last time that Dream yelled at him, but his body doesn’t seem to get the message.

"I don't  _ understand! _ " Tommy repeats, louder this time. There’s a snort from the corner—Sapnap being a prick and refusing to leave the two of them alone, as per usual. 

Dream winces at Tommy's screech. “Literary techniques,” he maintains, sounding much calmer than he looks. “You know?”

Tommy looks at him in complete confusion, because  _ what the fuck. _

“Metaphors. Similes. Allusions. Paradoxes.” At the blank look on Tommy’s—and Sapnap’s—faces, he tries even more desperately. “Imagery? Malapropism?”

Tommy’s face screws up in disgusted confusion. This is only confirming his belief that English is a horribly overrated subject. “What the fuck is a  _ malaproprism _ ?”

“Exactly,” Sapnap says from across the room, leering at Dream. On one hand, Tommy’s glad for the support, but on the other, it’s  _ Sapnap. _ “Fucking AP Lit nerds.”

“Yeah!” Tommy adds, grinning.

“Would you stop encouraging him?!” Dream sighs. He sounds exhausted. Tommy doesn’t envy him; he wouldn’t want to deal with his own bullshit on a weekly basis, let alone Sapnap’s. “This isn’t even your tutoring session, Sap. Get out.”

“I’m having far too much fun watching your tutoring shitshow to leave now,” Sapnap tells him. He leans back in his seat, kicks his legs up on the desk in front of him. “Go on, Dream. Tell Tommy what a malapropism is. We’re all waiting.”

Dream stares down at Tommy’s computer screen, sighs again, and obliges. “Fine,” and the rest of the session passes in a blur of bickering and Sapnap’s smart comments. Tommy leaves the library with a pounding headache, fingers clenched into fists. He settles himself at one of the senior high-top tables to wait for Wilbur before pulling out his laptop and booting up Minecraft. The school might block servers on the wifi, but he and Tubbo had found a way to bypass the filter so they could play at school.

Time passes quickly after he has the game up and running. When his computer finally dies (he’d forgotten to bring his charger today), he glances at his phone, surprised to find that it’s almost six o’clock. Tommy moves to pack up his stuff, sliding his laptop into its sleeve. Wilbur should be here by now—he might be pissed at Tommy for making him late, but it’s fine.

Turns out that it is decidedly  _ not  _ fine. Wilbur, Tommy thinks scathingly as the wind whips at his hair, is a right asshole.

He stares at the empty parking space where Will’s junky old Honda Civic should be parked, something like resentment burning in his stomach. In one fluid motion, he sets his trumpet case down on the pavement and pulls his cell phone from his pocket with the other hand.

Wilbur answers on the second ring, smirk audible in his voice.  _ “Tommy? Everything all right?” _

The words explode from Tommy’s chest, vehement, when he says, “Where are you, dickhead?”

Wilbur sighs, clicking his tongue in mock sympathy.  _ “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy—” _

“You’re supposed to pick me up from tutoring today!” Tommy grips his phone with trembling fingers. The chill is almost bearable, but his fingers are cold. “Phil said!”

_ “Change of plans.”  _ There’s a snicker from down the line, then a hushed whisper. Wilbur sounds like he’s grinning, the  _ prick. _

“Are you with fucking Schlatt?!” Tommye exclaims, and there’s a telltale laugh that confirms his suspicions. “You are! You  _ asshole _ —I’m telling Phil you ditched me!”

_ “Snitches get stitches, kid,” _ drawls another voice—the infamous Schlatt, probably sitting in the passenger seat of Will’s car.

_ “You gotta get home first,” _ Wilbur says with dark satisfaction. Tommy feels so angry he thinks he might burst.  _ “Good luck finding a ride without me to hold your hand, gremlin.”  _

Emotion bubbles up in Tommy’s throat, choking, and he only manages to grind out, “Fuck you.”

Wilbur hangs up. The dial tone sounds in Tommy’s ear, mockingly loud, and he curses. He resists the urge to throw the phone on the ground, pulling the device away from his ear instead—even if reckless destruction has always been more his thing than Wilbur’s, Phil  _ bought  _ Tommy this phone for Christmas last year. The few seconds of sharp satisfaction it would bring are not worth the hassle.

Dream and George have left already in Dream’s car—a decades-old Subaru Outback that Tommy likes to call the  _ Lovemobile,  _ if only to gain a reaction from Dream—which means that there’s no seniors left for Tommy to bully into giving him a ride.

He has no idea where they’ve gone. Probably to make out in a library or something equally as fucking poetic.  _ What losers, honestly. _

As Tommy trudges back towards the school, he feels his high spirits begin to drain away, leaving him with a numb feeling of desperation. What a fucking  _ asshole  _ Wilbur had been! He’d promised to pick Tommy up from debate club today, sworn to Phil he wouldn’t be late or drive distracted. Apparently, all that had flown out the window as soon as Schlatt got involved.

It’s not that Tommy doesn’t think Schlatt is hilarious—the guy has a riotous sense of humor. He hates Schlatt, in part, because he resents the way Wilbur trusts the guy. Schlatt has Wilbur’s unconditional trust, something that Tommy has never managed to achieve. 

With no other options—Dream and George are gone, the bus is out of sight, it’s far too cold to walk, and Phil is tied up with work—Tommy stops, digs his phone out of his pocket once again, and calls Techno.

It goes to voicemail—of course. Techno’s at work, too, probably sucking up to old ladies or some shit. He’s definitely too busy to field a call from his annoying younger brother.

But Wilbur is—well, Will is clearly having issues—and Phil is at work, so Techno is the only choice he has right now.

He pauses before swiping to his contacts and calling the grocery store where Techno works. Tommy quickly types in the extension for the customer service desk,  _ oh-seven-one,  _ and waits as the line rings and rings and rings.

There’s a  _ click. “Hi, thank you for calling Brothers Market, my name is Fundy. How may I help you?” _

Tommy grimaces. Just his luck. “ _ Hey _ , _ ”  _ he says, dragging out the word, “Fundy, my man, it’s Tommy! I was wondering—”

Fundy sighs, cutting him off, and he drops the faux-polite customer service voice to add,  _ “Tommy,  _ no,  _ you can’t keep doing this. I’m not allowed to let you prank-call Techno, dude, not after the last time.” _

“Fundy—”

_ “My manager threatened to  _ fire _ me!” _

“Fundy, seriously. I need to talk to him,” Tommy says quickly. “Please, man, it’s urgent.”

A pause. There’s some feedback down the line—probably an angry customer yelling at Techno, Tommy likes to think—before Fundy speaks again. There must be a pleading note in Tommy’s voice, because Fundy just sighs.  _ “Fine,”  _ he says,  _ “but make it quick.” _

The line goes on hold, and Tommy grasps his phone a little tighter as crappy elevator music filters through the speaker. He’s used to this—Fundy tends to take everything at work seriously. 

After a minute of smooth jazz that hurts Tommy’s eardrums when he puts the phone on speaker, there’s a click and a curiously familiar  _ “Hullo?”  _ that has Tommy scrambling to take his phone off mute.

“Techno!” he breathes out all in a rush, a sigh of relief that has him nearly shaking. “Techno, it’s Tommy.”

There’s a beat of surprised silence before Techno lets out a breath through gritted teeth. “Tommy. I swear to God, if this is another prank call—”

Tommy grimaces and backpedals quickly. “No, no, no, big man, it’s not like that—”

“—you’re gonna be in for it. I  _ told  _ you Nick doesn’t like it when you call me at work, you little gremlin, don’t you ever listen?” There’s an underlying tone of  _ something  _ beneath Techno’s words, flint being scraped against steel far too close to dry wood.

Of course Tommy knows that he’s  _ technically _ not allowed to call Techno at work. Techno’s reminded him enough times, waxing enough poetic about Nick, his manager, that it makes Tommy sick. 

Maybe it’s the insult buried in the words—being called a  _ gremlin  _ for the fiftieth time this week—the insinuation that he can never do anything right—but Tommy finds tears pricking at the backs of his eyes. He manages, “Techno,” tongue thick with words unsaid, and a small noise escapes the back of his throat.

He hates it. He doesn’t want to seem weak in front of his brother, but Techno inhales sharply at the sound. The anger is completely gone from his voice as he demands, “Tommy? Are you okay?”

“Wilbur ditched me,” Tommy chokes out. He rubs at his eyes in frustration, willing the lump in his throat to dissipate. “Sorry. It’s stupid, I know, but he fucked off with Schlatt. ‘M still at school, and I dunno how to get home.”

“He  _ ditched  _ you?” There’s something steely in Techno’s voice. Tommy takes a second to admire his older brother; Techno has always been the strong one out of their little trio. Even though he hates social interaction, preferring the company of books and video games to that of people, he’s not afraid to have hard conversations when someone he cares about is upset. “That motherfucker.”

The profanity, so uncharacteristic of his older brother, makes Tommy’s eyes widen. “Techno…?”

“Stay right where you are,” Techno orders. His tone allows for no argument, so Tommy plants his feet and stays put. Down the line, he can hear the _clink_ of keys and muffled voices, which he has to strain to make out—” _Family emergency, Fundy, gotta go, tell Nick I’m sorry”—_ and then, finally back through the phone, “I’m on my way, Tommy. Don’t move a muscle.”

Tommy swallows thickly. He doesn’t want to be a problem—if Techno’s manager is going to get mad at Techno, he’d rather walk home instead. “Techno—”

The line goes dead. Wincing, Tommy puts his phone away and tucks his reddened fingers into his pockets. The sun dips below the horizon as he watches, and the colors of the sunset begin to dye the buildings around him in beautiful color. It’s a watery sunset—the air around him is frigid, and snow crunches below his feet. Studying the colors helps to keep Tommy’s mind off his current situation, so he tries to commit the sunset to memory.

Five minutes later, Techno pulls into the parking lot—Tommy spots his older brother almost instantly. He’s frowning as he drives up to the front entrance, perched behind the wheel of a familiar bright-orange Honda Fit. Fundy’s car is the ugliest thing Tommy’s ever seen; Techno must have convinced his coworker to let him borrow it.

Techno pulls up to the curb only three feet away from Tommy, rolling the window down so that his breath pours into the air in dense clouds before cutting the engine. “It’s pretty damn cold out here,” he says in greeting. “You good?”

Tommy rubs his hands together, teeth chattering, and nods.

“Well, don’t just stand there,” Techno says after another moment of awkward silence. “Get in.”

So Tommy does—stumbling over to the passenger side, throwing the door open, gathering his things in the footwell. It’s much warmer in the car than outside. As he sits down, he frowns at the amount of cat hair on the seat and pulls the door closed behind him.

“Look, I had limited choice,” Techno drawls as if he’s trying to lighten the mood. “You wanna berate Fundy for lettin’ his cats roam free while he’s driving? Don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, Tommy.”

“What,” Tommy breathes out as Techno starts the car again and pulls away from the curb, “the  _ fuck  _ does that mean?”

“Horse teeth,” Techno says simply, like  _ that  _ explains anything. Tommy decides not to press, settling into the strange tension that hangs over the little car as Techno pulls out onto the main road. He can feel Techno’s anger, humming underneath his brother’s skin, and he shrinks into the corner just a little more. He  _ knows  _ Techno is angry with him for being a problem and ruining his shift, holy shit, he never should have called the store— 

“I’m not angry at you, Tommy,” Techno says, even though his tone is short and Tommy knows that it’s probably a lie. 

“Really? You’re practically shaking.”

“I’m angry,” Techno allows, clenching his right hand into a fist briefly as he navigates the busy intersection, “but not at you. Don’t worry about it, come on. Let’s get you home.”

And he falls silent for the rest of the way home. Tommy follows suit, still feeling uneasy, but unable to put a finger on it.

* * *

That night, Techno and Wilbur fight.

It’s not super unusual for the twins to have their problems from time to time, but this is different. Wilbur and Techno usually have the whole kindred spirits thing going on—telepathy or not, it’s pretty damn close. Tonight, though, their voices carry through thin walls, crashing like storm waves on rocks. 

Tommy and Phil are sat together at the kitchen table with cold plates in front of them, trying to ignore the shouting upstairs. Tommy grimaces when he hears the  _ bang  _ of a door slamming, a collision that shakes the entire house to its foundation. 

He picks up his fork, prods at his dinner: spaghetti bolognaise, gone cold by virtue of how long he’s taken to eat it. Phil’s plate is already clean; Wilbur had taken a few bites and pushed it away; Techno had practically scarfed his plate down, glowering at his family the entire time. 

Conversation has been stilted the entire night—Wilbur refused to meet Tommy’s eyes when they all settled at the dinner table. Techno had made a few short, sharp comments. Phil, horribly out of his depth, had ignored the clear dynamics in the room once again and instead asked the same shallow questions about school.

They haven’t told him about today. 

From above, there’s the sound of glass breaking, and Tommy nearly falls out of his chair with how hard he flinches. Phil’s gaze hardens and he jumps to his feet with a feline grace. “This is ridiculous,” he huffs out, before he’s out of the kitchen and halfway up the stairs in the blink of an eye. Tommy scrambles to follow, his footing uneven. He manages to dart through Phil’s legs on the stairs before stopping short.

There’s shattered glass on the upstairs landing. Tommy nearly steps on it, shrieking when he stumbles back a few steps. Wilbur’s holding his bloody hand close to his chest, staring at Techno with a betrayed expression.

Tommy glances from Wilbur’s injured hand to the glass figurine in Techno’s grip— _ half  _ of a figurine, that is, edges jagged and held between fingers slick with Wilbur’s blood—and he blanches.

Phil is there in an instant, pulling Wilbur’s hand away from his chest and uncurling his fingers so he can survey the gash. “Are you okay?” he demands.

Wilbur casts a look at Techno, whose gaze is hard. “I’m fine,” he grinds out, snatching his hand away and traipsing down the stairs before Phil can protest. “Ask Techno if you care so fucking much.”

_ “Will!”  _ Phil gasps as his middle son disappears downstairs—Techno’s fists clench at his side. Phil strides over to Techno after a moment, managing, “What the fuck were you two doing?”

“Talking,” Techno says, eyes trained on the rug. He looks…  _ upset,  _ Tommy thinks, even though he’s never really been able to tell what Techno’s truly feeling. 

Phil snorts, crossing his arms over his chest in a motion that only heightens the tension in the air. “There’s glass on the floor and I heard a door slam. Pretty sure you weren’t bloody talking, mate. What the hell were you shouting about?”

“Nothing,” Techno says, just as Tommy goes, “It’s my fault, Phil,” which earns him a fiery glare from his older brother. He grimaces—bad timing, once again. 

Phil turns on him at once, far too eager. “Tommy?”

“It was nothing _ ,”  _ Tommy says, backtracking immediately, “I was joking, ha, don’t get your knickers in a twist, Big P—”

“Tell me the truth!” Philza says roughly, and Tommy flinches back again as if he’d been struck, guided by a lifetime of self-preservation and making himself scarce when there’s conflict. Techno notices almost immediately; he sets a comforting hand on Tommy’s shoulder and steers him down the hallway; away from the mess on the floor, toward his own room.

Phil looks confused. “Techno—”

“Not now, Phil,” he says, sounding exhausted. To Tommy: “Come on, nerd.”

Phil’s sigh is muffled by the door as Techno swings it closed. Instantly, Tommy turns on him, crossing his arms over his chest as Techno digs around for a wet wipe to clean off his hand with. “What the fuck did you say to Wilbur?!”

“I told him the truth. He shouldn’t have left you at school today,” Techno says with a sigh, avoiding Tommy’s eyes. He tosses the wipe and the ruined figurine in the bin in a fluid movement. “I also told him he hasn’t been a very good older brother lately.”

Tommy blinks. It's hard to reconcile this Techno with the one he's known for the past two years. “You would do that?” he says softly. “For me?”

“I  _ did  _ do that,” Techno corrects. He rummages in his drawers before tossing something to Tommy; one of his button-up shirts. It’s far too big for Tommy—when he wraps it around his shoulders, the hem falls to his thigh—but it smells like Techno’s body wash. It’s comforting, in a way. Tommy’s never experienced this much affection from his older brother. “Put that on and go talk to Wilbur. It's cold outside and he’s far too angry to listen to me right now.”

Tommy splutters. “What makes you think he won’t immediately stab me?”

“Because he cares about you.”

Tommy snorts. “Fat fucking chance.” 

Techno shoots him a lukewarm glare. “Go,” he says, pushing at Tommy’s chest with his clean hand. “He’s downstairs.”

Tommy huffs out a breath in exasperation, but he obliges, shutting Techno’s door quietly behind him. Phil is sweeping up the glass with a dustpan and brush as he passes; the sharp sting of disinfectant attacks Tommy’s nose when Phil looks up at him.

“Everything okay, mate?” he asks. Tommy’s heart aches at the look in his eyes; Phil looks lost, adrift in a sea of problems that are his own making. Maybe in an alternate reality, if his adopted dad was home more, Tommy would confide in him. Maybe Phil would even punish Wilbur, take Tommy’s side in an argument for once.

But this is not that reality.

“Fine,” Tommy says stiffly before he catapults himself down the stairs after Will. He finds his older brother on the front porch, legs tucked into his chest as he reclines on the old patio furniture. It’s freezing outside; they should have taken the summer stuff down months ago.

“What do you want,” Will says in an awful monotone when the screen door shuts behind Tommy.

He finds himself genuinely lost for words. “Techno told me to come talk to you,” is what Tommy settles on finally. It sounds lame in the cold air between them.

Wilbur snorts. “Did he, now.”

“You’re a right asshole, you know that?” Tommy says, finally voicing the words aloud. Will blinks, like he hadn’t expected Tommy to go straight for the throat like that.

“And you aren’t?”

“You left me,” Tommy says slowly, so his brother can get it through his thick head. “You proper ditched me. To go hang out with  _ Schlatt,  _ of all people _.” _

“Oh, I know,” Wilbur says acidly, “you don’t have to remind me. I’ve heard enough of it from Techno. D’you know he got a strike for leaving work early today to come get you?”

Tommy grimaces. The familiar self-hatred of intrusive thoughts worms its way into his chest again:  _ they’d be better off without you,  _ the voice whispers,  _ you fuck everything up, what a joke— _

“It was too cold to walk,” Tommy says, trying to brush away the feeling. It settles on his chest, heavy like cobwebs, and he plucks at Techno’s shirt nervously. “I had to call him. Besides, it's _your_ fault. You promised you’d pick me up, bruv, what happened?”

Wilbur stares at his nails. The black nail polish is starting to chip at the edges. “Life,” he says petulantly, and it’s such a lame answer that Tommy scoffs.

“You’re not a fucking millennial, man, you wanna try that again?”

“Look, I’m sorry you had to call Techno. Is that what you want? You want an apology?” He stands up from the chair as his tone turns dangerous, towering over Tommy in a way that unsettles the younger boy’s stomach. “I’m oh-so- _ fucking- _ sorry that I ruined your day, okay?”

Tommy blinks at the non sequitur. “Will, what—why would you do that?”

“You clearly don’t need me,” Wilbur says as if it's a perfectly reasonable explanation. He shuts his eyes tight for a moment as if he’s trying to will away tears, before opening them to scowl at Tommy once again. “You’ve made that pretty fucking clear. Thought I’d drive the point home a little today.”

Tommy stares at him, completely lost. “Are you fucking  _ insane?” _

Will narrows his eyes. “Of course not!”

“Of course I need you!” Tommy nearly shouts, then winces; they’ll wake the neighbors up if he continues berating Wilbur at that volume. “Of course I need you,” he repeats, softer, “was that not the entire point of today? That you were supposed to pick me up from school?”

“Yeah, but—but you don’t need me for anything else,” Will says, sounding incredibly unsure. It’s incredibly out of character for him; Tommy shoots him a strange look. “You never ask me for help or anything.”

He snorts. "Yeah, because you’re an asshole.”

Will laughs humorlessly, gesturing with his hands as if Tommy's just proved his point. “There you go! You just—you just swear at me and go and ask  _ Dream  _ for help.”

“Are you fucking jealous? _ ”  _ Tommy demands, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring up at Willbur. “Of  _ Dream _ ?!”

“No!” Will says a little too quickly, cheeks flushing. “No fucking way.”

“Well, maybe if you were a little nicer to me,” Tommy says pointedly, “I wouldn’t call you an asshole _.  _ Truth hurts, big man.”

Wilbur flushes furiously, glancing away, but his voice is soft when he speaks. “So you don’t hate me?”

Tommy has to think about that. Silence stretches out between them, interminable as Wilbur watches the rise and fall of Tommy's chest. “No,” he says after a moment, breaking the delicate quiet. “No, I don’t think so. I just wanna know why you can’t stand me.”

“You’re so annoying,” Wilbur groans, pressing his hand to his temple. “If you don’t hate me and I don’t actually hate you, then what the hell are we arguing about?”

“Hold on a minute, dubs,” Tommy says, a little incredulous, “you’ve been a pretty shit brother lately. This doesn’t change any of that. But,” he adds when Wilbur opens his mouth to speak, oddly reminiscent of a pufferfish, “I'm willing to try.” Tommy gazes up at Will, scanning his brother’s expression. “Let's try, at least. For Techno’s sake.”

Will’s gaze softens. “For Techno,” he agrees, and he reaches out and shakes Tommy’s hand with a firm grip that leaves Tommy’s fingers feeling slightly numb.

Somewhere in the neighborhood, a dog starts barking, and there’s the howl of wolves, and the moon rises, but it all pales to the feeling in his chest, hand entwined with his brother’s.  _ For Techno,  _ Tommy thinks, almost giddy with relief. 

**Author's Note:**

> this is shameless self-promo, but i listened to my [sbi playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/6XzN3ikc9XfeF9v9rPN4AI?si=8oM-i6ULQY-uClws7DYDmA) on loop while writing and you should do the same :DD
> 
> according to ao3 statistics, only 0.1% of people who read my fics actually leave kudos. so please hit the kudos button, it's free ~~and you can always change ur mind later~~ :P


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